She opened the passenger door, then paused.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be weird about this.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You are absolutely being weird.”
“How?”
“You’re acting like people saying something good about you is dangerous.”
Daniel looked at her.
Chloe shrugged one shoulder.
“I know you don’t like attention. But maybe it’s okay if people see something good once in a while.”
She leaned over, kissed his cheek quickly before any classmates could see, and climbed out.
Daniel watched her disappear through the school entrance.
Her words followed him all the way to the garage.
He turned onto his street at 7:03 and immediately understood Marcus had not been exaggerating.
Cars lined both curbs.
At least thirty people stood near the front entrance.
Some held coffee. Several had phones raised. A television van occupied two parking spaces across from the shop, its tall mast extended into the gray morning sky. Another vehicle with a radio station logo had pulled behind it.
Daniel slowed his sedan to a crawl.
For one absurd moment he considered continuing past the garage and pretending he did not know the man everyone was waiting for.
Then Nadia Cole saw him.
The Channel Nine reporter stepped into the lot and waved.
People turned.
Daniel parked behind the shop.
By the time he came around the building, a cameraman was already walking backward in front of Nadia as she approached.
“Mr. Carter?”
Daniel stopped.
“That depends what you want.”
Nadia smiled.
“I’m Nadia Cole with Channel Nine News. We’d like to ask you about what happened last night with Grace Hanson.”
“How do you know her name?”
“Her mother’s post is public.”
Daniel glanced at the camera.
The red light was off, but not reassuringly off.
“I didn’t do anything worth filming,” he said.
“That might be why people are interested.”
Behind her, the small crowd murmured.
Someone called, “We love what you did, Daniel!”
Daniel closed his eyes briefly.
Nadia lowered the microphone a little.
“Look, I can see you’re uncomfortable. We don’t have to ambush you. We can wait until you open, talk for two minutes, and leave. But the story is already everywhere. It may be better for people to hear what happened from you instead of from strangers filling in the blanks.”
That argument reached the practical part of his brain.
Daniel nodded once.
“Two minutes.”
“Two minutes.”
He unlocked the garage.
Before he could even turn on every light, customers began lining up.
The first was an older man named Frank Avery who drove a twelve-year-old pickup with an exhaust rattle.
“I heard what you did,” Frank said, holding out his keys. “My regular shop closed last year. Figure I’d rather give money to somebody who acts right when nobody’s watching.”